


Wasting Time

by OverOnTheBench



Series: Barry and Grace [1]
Category: Barry (TV 2018)
Genre: 1990s, Canon Compliant, F/M, First Love, First Meetings, High School, Origin Story, Pre-Canon, Pre-War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-12-01 23:19:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20931791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OverOnTheBench/pseuds/OverOnTheBench
Summary: In 1996, 17 year old Barry Berkman's main concerns revolve around baseball and living up to his family's expectations. He's trying to get through a world that scrutinizes him and ignores him all at once. It's nice to meet a girl who does neither.





	Wasting Time

**Author's Note:**

> This work is part of the Supercut collection I'm working on with @fancifulfiction! It might be best to read the previous two installments first, but this story can stand alone. 
> 
> This is the first of 4 to 6 chapters in this work, which will cover the first months of Barry's relationship with his high school sweetheart. It will also flesh out Barry's family life, his connection to Fuches, and sets events in motion that will follow him into adult life.
> 
> Both of us have loved talking about and working on this project together, and I really hope you guys enjoy it too. The show doesn't delve into Barry's life before the Marines, so we thought it'd be interesting to explore how things could have been.
> 
> Thank you for reading, and for the lovely responses to the previous 2 installments in this collection!

_ Friday, May 5th, 1996 _

Under a cloudless sky, heat rose off the dusty diamond in ripples. Barry Berkman’s uniform was still crisp and free of stains. His knee bounced while he was stationed on the steel dugout bench, and he glanced around to pinpoint an earthy, sweet smell. The source was revealed when Mike Paxton, the first baseman, grinned at him from near the steps and revealed the wad of chewing tobacco between his teeth.

“Didn’t Coach Miller just yell at us for using that?” Barry remarked, though he really didn’t care. Lately, he’d learned the art of giving his teammates a hard time. It had only taken him three years. 

Mike snorted. “The fuck’s he gonna do? I’m eighteen. If I can die for my country, I should be able to chew whatever the fuck I want.”

“Sure, just not on school grounds.” Coach Miller came up behind Mike and gave him a few rough pats on the back, making him sputter and cough. Barry grinned and offered the older boy a swig of his Gatorade. Out on the field their rivals, Beachwood Prep, were kicking up puffs of dirt and tossing starch-white balls back and forth to each other. On the surface they were too casual, even lazy, but Barry and the rest of his team knew better. This was by far the best team in the Cleveland area, and last season they’d been humiliated by these same guys 10 to 2. He was determined to keep it from happening again. It was unacceptable. He couldn’t think about how he’d been awake since 4:45am, how he’d skipped lunch to practice, how heavy his exhaustion was becoming. Losing wasn’t an option.

A whistle was blown, and the noise from the bleachers behind the dugout swelled in Barry’s ears. As he was walking out to take his place on the field, he glanced back to scan the smattering of faces looking down on the diamond. They always sat in clusters, he noticed. It was against his better judgement to look back, because he already knew his family wasn’t there. Between freshman and junior year, it had only happened once - his brother showed up to surprise him one day, just returned home from deployment. But it had stormed, and the game was cancelled. No one in the family had ever seen Barry play ball. Still, that one occurrence had been enough to keep a spark alive in him - maybe one day, Jacob would appear again, or Sarah or...well, no. Not Dad.

The focus he’d been grasping at was gone now. His own fault, and he knew it. He was paying more attention to the smells from the concession stand than what was going on in the outfield, or in front of him at home plate. His stomach rumbled, and he found himself looking at all the foods the spectators were holding. Hot dogs, nachos, and burgers all stood out to him. Lunchtime practice was a huge mistake. Amongst all that, his gaze landed on a girl shuffling her way down a row to sit by a friend. Face obscured by hair, body obscured by flannel, she held a can of grape soda. Barry wasn’t sure if he’d seen her before at school, but he remained transfixed until she sat down, looking out on the field with complete boredom. This was immediately followed by him getting smacked in the head with a pitcher’s mitt.

“What the fuck?” he grumbled, bending to pick up his cap and the mitt.

“You forgot that on the bench,” Mike said, moving back to shortstop position. “Get your head outta your ass, Berkman. I’m not losing to these daddy’s money jagoffs.”

Barry frowned, then turned back to face home plate. “Me neither.”

***

In the end, they didn’t lose, but that was no thanks to Barry’s pitching. His form fell apart early on, and he knew it. If it weren’t for a last-minute grand slam from Jimmy McNamara, of all people, they would have been toast. The friendly back pats from the rest of his team were lackluster, to say the least.

He avoided Coach Miller on his way to the locker room, relieved at the thought of getting some greasy food and a hot shower, no one to bother him or judge whatever he was doing. The alone time in his truck on the way home would prepare him for whatever awaited him back at the house, hopefully. His mind began to turn towards the Calculus exam on Monday, and how he’d balance studying and working and finishing yard work, when he registered someone speaking nearby.

“Did that kill you? Look, we finally hung out together.”

“Still not going to prom, Kelsey.”

He turned towards the girls’ voices. They were the two he’d noticed in the bleachers - the taller one, in an electric blue windbreaker, and the shorter one in the warm flannel, the lurid purple can now empty and crushed in her hand. 

“I never said that you had to,” Kelsey sighed, “even though it would be nice. Seriously, can you tell me you didn’t even have a little fun?”

“Why are you assuming I didn’t have fun? It was fine. I like hanging out with you. I just don’t get sports.”

“It’s not about the sports. It’s about the guys who are playing sports.”

They stopped by the concession stand, and Barry was quietly glad he had a reason to be heading this way. He didn’t want to seem weird, so he hung back by the fence while Kelsey and her friend continued talking out of earshot for a moment. Kelsey turned and headed for the parking lot after a minute or two, while her friend stayed behind and got into the dwindling concessions line. Barry finally took his spot in the second line. Getting a burger had never been so nerve-wracking. What was wrong with him? He had no idea who this girl was. It wasn’t like he couldn’t talk to girls. He talked to his sister all the time.

“Nice job pitching.”

_Fuck._

Barry turned his shoulders in her direction. She wasn't really smiling, he didn't think. It was hard to tell. She had a lot of makeup on. Her foundation was a bit too pale for her face, and despite the dark smudge of liner on her eyelids, her eyes were friendly and expectant. She wanted a response.

“I don't know if that was sarcastic or not,” he said. That made her smile.

“It wasn't. I honestly have no idea if you did well, but at least your team won. You were throwing the ball really fast or whatever.”

Barry smiled back and shrugged. “Well, thanks. Do you go here?”

“We have fourth period together, dude.”

_Strike two._

“I'm so sorry,” he stammered. “I thought you kinda looked familiar. No, no, I remember now...Gina?”

“Grace.” 

“Grace. I'm Barry.”

“I know.”

Barry paused, then found himself laughing. Grace laughed too, and he swore he saw pink showing through on her cheeks. 

“Are you ever gonna order or what?” whined some gangly senior inside the concession stand. The two of them pulled it together long enough to order. Barry wiped his sweaty palms on his pants. He knew words weren’t his strong suit, but Grace hadn’t walked away yet, which gave him some hope. At the very least, he’d made a new friend in one of his classes. She was buying another grape soda, and when the cashier read her total, he handed over a dollar bill before she had a chance to dig in her pocket for change. 

“Oh,” Grace said simply, her voice betraying light surprise. “Thanks, man.”

“No problem.” Barry questioned if that had been a good move. “It’s not that I don’t think you can’t buy your own pop. I mean, I have no reason to think that.”

Grace laughed again, and she tilted her head, her gaze seeming to evaluate. “No, I didn’t think that. I appreciate it. You’re okay.”

“I’m just not a great talker.”

“You think so?” she asked, cracking open the can. “You seem just fine to me. For once, I don’t have to guess what someone’s thinking. Talking to people is fucking hard, especially at this school.”

Barry followed her lead and started to scarf down his burger as she crossed towards the parking lot, in no particular hurry. “That might just be every school.”

“I switched schools in January of last year. Starting high school is hellish as it is. Now imagine coming into a new freshman class halfway through. No one acknowledged my existence for like, eight weeks.”

“Where did you move from?”

“I'm from around here, unfortunately.” Grace made a turn and walked alongside the school building, heading for the bike rack. “But my parents moved into my grandma’s old house, which is super far from Edison High. It was easier to just switch schools.”

Barry watched with his hands shoved in his pockets while she unlocked her bike. It was a dull blue, and the front tire seemed to be low on air. Something didn’t make sense. “Wait, if you're only a sophomore, how are you in my class?”

“It’s an honors course for me. They didn't have enough kids to run a full honors class for sophomores.”

“Oh. Makes sense. Yeah, when we were talking about our essays a few weeks ago, you seemed pretty smart.” Barry shuffled his feet, still not sure of what he should say and what he shouldn't. “I dunno, I feel bad for not noticing you much before now. You're cool.”

“Oh, don't worry about it,” Grace said with a shrug. “There’s a ton of people in that class. We have different friends, too. I'm not insulted by it. I'm just glad we're talking now.”

“Me too.” 

Natural quiet fell in a curtain between them. Anxiety swelled in Barry’s stomach as he checked his watch, and he questioned if he’d have enough time to get all his tasks done before Dad got home from work. But a new urge held him back, made him pause and falter where most times he’d run like hell. Grace was ready to leave, foot absently tapping against her bike’s kickstand. It wasn’t as if he’d never see her again. In fact, he’d see her Monday. But it’d be a different time and place. They wouldn’t be alone. Barry liked being alone with Grace and just talking, even about mundane things. He liked her low, mature voice. He liked how she laughed - loud, enthusiastic, and full. Barry had never been great at reading the emotions of others, but Grace was easy to understand. He didn’t need to guess at what she was thinking. And, most of all, he could understand that she wasn’t judging him - not by his performance or his looks or the way he spoke. Grace enjoyed his presence as much as he enjoyed hers.

“Let me drive you home,” he blurted out.

Grace lit up, grinning wide, then reining it in only seconds later. “Oh, really? You don’t need to, I’m not very far.”

“Well, neither am I. It wouldn’t be going out of my way.”

“You don’t know that,” Grace remarked, quirking an eyebrow. “I could be going in the opposite direction.”

“I’ll take the risk,” Barry said. 

Grace followed him to the far end of the parking lot, where his truck was parked. For the first time ever, he was a little self-conscious of the old Chevy - it was a faded, rusting blue, with a crack in the driver side window. He’d saved up for nearly three years, as soon as he first started working around the neighborhood at fourteen. Any money that he didn’t have to give to his parents was saved in a jar in the back of his closet. The day he’d bought the truck stuck out in his memory as bright and triumphant, his ticket to new freedoms - now, it just looked rather sad.

“Neat,” Grace said, hoisting her bike into the bed. "God, I can't wait to have a car..."

Barry blinked. Perhaps his truck wasn’t pathetic after all.

As he peeled out of the parking lot, Grace indicated he should turn left, in the direction of his own neighborhood. He glanced over to see her fiddling with the radio knob. “Sorry, only thing that works is the cassette player. There’s tapes in the glove box if you wanna look.”

“I’ve had a song in my head all day,” Grace said, already digging through her backpack. “Is it cool if I play something?”

“Oh, sure. What is it?”

“Just that one Green Day song. Here-”

She popped the tape in, and fast-forwarded to the track. It was one of two Green Day songs Barry knew, “When I Come Around”. During freshman year, a friend had invited him to a Green Day concert. Of course, he wasn’t able to go, but he’d just been happy to be considered. He’d never been cool enough to go to a concert before then, and hadn’t been since. His fingers drummed against the steering wheel, while Grace tapped her foot on the floor, her boot making a distinctive _ clunk_ing sound. 

“Hang a right,” she said casually, “it’s only another mile. So, how’d you do on the _ 1984 _ essay?”

“About as well as every other essay,” he said, “maybe a little worse. The ending just bummed me out, so I didn’t really concentrate. I just don’t get why Winston did a lot of what he did.”

Grace hummed assent, looking out the window. “I think that type of powerlessness is just hard to understand for most people, unless they experience for themselves. I did okay, but I should have done better. Have you started Macbeth yet?”

“No. I have a calculus exam to focus on, I can’t fail it.”

“Makes sense. If you have time, maybe we could work on the first reflection together? After school, on Monday?”

“On Monday…oh,” Barry said dumbly, looking over at her. “Y-yeah, that would rule.”

“Sweet. I just hate Old English,” Grace said with a short laugh. Her face was dusky pink. “Now we can suffer through it together. Oh, there’s my house on the right-”

Barry’s brakes squealed a bit from the sudden stop. He was in front of a low-lying brown split-level, with an ancient oak tree in the front yard, one he recognized from passing hundreds of times in his life. “My house is four or five blocks up the road. Crazy.”

“I can’t believe we haven’t seen each other around more,” Grace remarked as she was climbing out. Barry saw her leaving and leapt into action, jumping out of the truck and scrambling to open the tailgate before she could. When he pulled out her bike and set it down, she gave him a nonplussed look, eyes lingering for a moment. Their deep blueness struck him just as before, with a gravity-defying flip in his stomach.

“Thanks, Barry. Cool talking to you, I’ll see you Monday.”

“Monday,” Barry repeated. “Rad. See ya, Grace.”

He realized he was staring as she walked the bike up the driveway, and almost ran to get back in his truck. As he was pulling away, he released a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. The weariness of the day had melted out of his mind, and his only thought was getting home and telling Sarah about his date...his study date. After school, in the library. Still a date. 


End file.
